


Learn Your Place, Boy

by Absolutefandomtrash



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse, American Horror Story: Coven, American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: Baby Michael, Bad Parenting, Canon Divergence, Childhood, Constance being dramatic, Demon Summoning, Father/Son Incest, I don't know how to summon anything with magic so this is as good as it'll get, Implied/Referenced Incest, Incest, Language, Michael being the antichrist he is, Michael is Tate's son, Michael is Vivien's son, Michael was raised by Constance and everyone seems to forget it, Mrs. Mead is Constance, Multi, Oops, Spoilers, also remember that Michael's like 8, basically Michael ends up making out with Satan as part of a contract, because this is in a weird grey area so better safe than sorry, but I'm tagging it anyway, but i'm still tagging it, kissing used to be a way to officially seal contracts, not realizing you're magic, nothing past kissing happens, okay so it probably doesn't really count as incest, probably an incorrect depiction of summoning satan, there will be mentions of Vivien's rape, trigger warning: description of blood, trigger warning: rape, trigger warning: self harm, with every episode that comes out this gets more and more canon divergent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-07-16 03:26:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16077380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Absolutefandomtrash/pseuds/Absolutefandomtrash
Summary: A look at Michael Langdon's childhood and how he developed into who we see at Outpost 3. All things considered, he turned out not as bad as he could have. Constance raised a child with some form of manners, after all.





	1. Trouble Child

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't even seen Apocalypse and I'm thirsting after Michael. And I had this idea in my head since the last episode of Murder House, so this is an excuse for me to write down an aged fic idea. Hopefully a fic that aged like fine wine and not like a corpse. That was a weird metaphor.

A beautiful little boy, her Michael.

So everyone said. They looked at the small boy with blond hair and blue eyes and a wide smile and called him handsome and beautiful and polite and he looks so much like his grandmother, doesn't he? He would smile bigger and nod, sometimes with a small giggle, and Constance would laugh politely and say yes and move on. He would hold her hand tightly and swing it like small children his age did, and she would chastise him for getting ice cream on his cheeks like adults in her position did.

Yes, he was a beautiful boy, her Michael.

A trouble child as well.

Actually, that is an understatement. Tate was a trouble child. Tate was loud and rambunctious and never wanted to do what he was told. And she had brushed that away as normal behavior and parented him like her mother parented her "trouble child" brothers and didn't notice the signs of something deeper until he was shot up by a SWAT team and raped his girlfriend's mother. Tate was a trouble child, and she had ignored every sign of something deeper in him.

Billie Dean Howard told her that a child conceived by a human and ghost would create the Antichrist. And looking at her grandson's beauty reminded her that Lucifer was an angel before he fell, and one of God's favorites before he rebelled. Her beautiful boy inherited the blue eyes that she unfortunately couldn't pass to Tate, but they held no warmth in them. Even when he smiled, his eyes stayed cold and predatory, and it chilled her to the bone when they looked at her. But he seemed to view her differently than others, since there was some softness that blunted the sharpness in them whenever he paid attention. Small comfort.

Trouble children do not relish in violence.

Not even Tate liked what he was doing. For him it was an extreme way of lashing out, like a tantrum toddlers were put to shame with. He didn't like hurting Vivien, either. When she confronted him he looked at her with pathetic self-loathing in his eyes. A violent trouble child who seemed hell-bent on punishing himself and others for his mere existence. He was the one who would kick someone's sandcastle over, but only if they made fun of his first.

Michael would have shoved the children's faces into their sandcastles and let them choke on their own creation.

Her job was raising the Antichrist until the fateful day of the world ending came. Every time she looked at him she wondered when it would be and what it would look like. Five years old and with plagues that would put Moses to shame? Fifteen and with storms and floods and tornados? Twenty-five and in the army?

Eight and with nuclear weapons he couldn't possibly understand?

No use worrying about that. Worry about raising a child who aged five months in a day, approximately.

She came home looking for the nanny but instead found blood. A trail of it moving to Michael's bedroom. Fearing for the worst, she ran in and saw the nanny's body in front of Michael, who was sitting calmly in a rocking chair. He looked up and giggled proudly. She sighed and knelt in front of him. He showed her his bloody hands and pointed to the body. She just shook her head and stroked his cheek, whispering, "What am I going to do with you?"

A trouble child, her Michael.


	2. Growing Up Fast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael learns a little bit more about himself, and our favorite nutty psychic makes an appearance to be cryptic.

Michael knew he had something different about him. If nothing else, he was growing fast. Maturing fast. Grandma homeschooled him for this reason, she said. He was growing up more than anyone his age does, and he needed to be taught in a way that fit that. He couldn't argue about that. He didn't like other people very much, anyway. They were boring. Grandma was okay. Grandma tried and loved him and had secrets. He liked secrets. The times she told the truth were like finding a buried seashell. Then he could learn more about her, about him. She knew a lot more about him than he did.

Birthdays were weird. He knew he had one, a real one, but Grandma kept telling him how old his body was. Five, eight, fifteen. Fifteen seemed to be the slowest one, but he kept getting older. And as he got older, he matured faster with his body. Fifteen years old at three years old. He just said he was fifteen to anyone who asked. 

One day he heard the front door open, and a lady was talking to Grandma. They walked to the kitchen. A tall blonde woman with a thin face and round, dark eyes laughed at something that was said and accepted a glass of lemonade. Then she looked at him, and the color from her face drained.

Something in the back of his head felt aggravated at seeing her. She rubbed him the wrong way. And she seemed to know it.

Grandma poked her head out of the fridge. "Michael! Oh, you scared me, sweetie." She smiled at him and held up the pitcher. He shook his head. She motioned to the lady. "This is my friend, Billie Dean Howard. Say hello." He looked at her for a few seconds then walked to her with his hand held out and his best fake smile on.

"Hi," he said sweetly. He wanted to claw her eyes out of her skull but gave no indication of the sort. "I'm Michael Langdon." She shook his hand. Her hand was only slightly warmer than his. Both were ice cold.

"Billie Dean Howard," she replied tensely. "Your grandmother's been telling me about you. All good things, don't worry." She gave a joking wink. If it wasn't the shakiness of her hand and the fear in her eyes she would've been as charming as Grandma could be when she wanted. He smiled wider.

"I'm the perfect grandchild, so there isn't anything bad to talk about." Nothing bad that any normal person would assume, though. He knew that Ms. Howard didn't seem to believe it, but she turned to Grandma and remarked, "How come your bloodline get the beautiful genes while mine gets all bony and mysterious and won't be lasting after I kick the bucket?" That was teasing. Actual teasing. He sat at the bar and watched Grandma sit next to her with a smile. A real smile.

"Billie, you know I had to work hard to get my genes passed on." They were good friends, then. Someone with two first names wouldn't let themselves be called by just one of them. "But now tell me why you wanted to see me so suddenly?" 'Billie' pursed her thin lips and sighed.

"I'm moving out to the Midwest."

"What?"

"It's my time to move, Constance." Weird tone of voice. Resigned. Scared. He started to pay more attention.

"What is it about the Midwest, though?"

"I don't know. I just feel pulled there. And when you feel the pull, you gotta follow it." Michael felt a pull to stab her with one of the kitchen knives, but that would be too much of a mess to clean up. Besides, she was a family friend, and he didn't know that Grandma had those.

"I'm sure I would understand better if I ever had that kind of pull."

"Be glad you don't. It gives great airline miles, but horrible moving costs." She finished her glass. "That's really all I'm here for, I'm afraid. I needed to tell you in person." Grandma hugged her tightly.

"Tell me all about wherever you end up when you can. And send a postcard or a keychain or something. Michael's rather fond of traveling mementos." She looked at him with thinly-veiled worry, and he nodded with a small satisfied smile. She knew he could feel the fear radiating from her body.

"Have your grandma tell me what exactly you want, and I'll send it." Another wink. She stood up. Grandma walked with her to the door while he made himself a glass of milk. He heard their muffled voices arguing and moved closer to the hallway so he could hear better.

"Constance, I don't care who he's related to! You know what he is, and I'm telling you now that we would all be better if you drove a rosary through his head!" Billie hissed.

"You don't know that!"

"Oh, you believe all that crap," she scoffed. "Listen, everything they have in movies and books where it just takes good parenting to avoid what's going to happen is all bullshit! It doesn't matter how much you love him and how much of an upbringing he has before it happens. When it happens, it happens, and nothing you do will stop that!"

"I don't care! Have you ever thought about that? I don't care what will happen, and I don't care what you're telling me! This is one of the first times in several years that I've actually had a good relationship with someone I get to parent, and I am not about to squander that!"

"Fine! Just know that I tried stopping this!" The door shut, and he heard Grandma take a shaky breath. He put the milk down and walked into the hallway. She was wiping her eyes.

"Why's she scared of me?" She jumped then looked at him.

"Were you eavesdropping?"

"I heard the end. But she was afraid of me as soon as I saw her." She sighed.

"Michael, you know how we talked about your intuition?"

"Yes?"

"Well, her intuition is more on the lines of spiritual."

"She's a psychic?" That explained the weird feeling she gave him. Why he hated her because of how she felt.

"Yes." She walked over to him and patted his cheek. "Please don't worry about it. She gets a lot of spooks."

"Mine's real, isn't it?" he mumbled and sat down with his milk.


	3. Well That was New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two idiots decide to bust in and attempt to rob the Langdon's. Their evening doesn't go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the positive feedback! This fic is a day old and already people are giving it good reviews! It's growing fast, much like a certain character in this...
> 
> But seriously, thank you.

Everyone in their right mind avoided unwelcome visits to the Langdon House.

It was right next to the infamous Murder House, for one thing. Fascinated tourists and creepy fanatics gathered around it like moths to a flame, and the "For Sale" sign had been replaced by "For Lease". Not a promising sign to have in front of Los Angeles' allegedly most haunted properties. So most normal people avoided the neighborhood altogether.

The woman called Constance Langdon, who lived in the neighboring house, had the exact face and temperament one would expect from someone who lived next to such a notorious property. She chased curios teens away from both houses and was rumored to have scared the Jehovah's Witnesses from the street after one five-minute visit. Five minutes of conversation with her made that story believable.

And then there was the kid.

Nothing against the kid himself, he probably was amazing once you got to know him. He was certainly attractive, with soft caramel blond hair, crystal-blue eyes, perfectly clear skin, and well-defined features; that paired with the same Southern politeness his grandmother pretended to have screamed good breeding. Theoretically, he would have a large social circle and would bring more nuisance than the house next door.

Theoretically. In reality, he had something... off about him. His face was too perfect, too symmetrical to even give the allusion of flesh and blood rather than a marble carving to make Michelangelo envious. He stood too straight for any person, let alone someone his age, and moved with feline grace that was more feline than grace. His eyes, too. Instead of the warm sparkles that come with the pigment, there was a sharp edge to them. Sharp and cold. They didn't just pierce; they gutted. They never changed with his expressions or tone of voice. Like he wasn't all present.

Probably a good kid. Hopefully a good kid. Please be a good kid. Is there any good in this kid?

Most right-minded people chose to just avoid him rather than risk finding out.

Well, whoever made enough noise to wake the dead bodies next door certainly was not, Constance thought with a sleepy groan. She hoped it wasn't Michael fully entering his rebellious teen phase, because she might have to kill him. She did not want another SWAT team shooting up her flesh and blood, and she did not want to deal with his permanently-seventeen-year-old ghost hanging around.

She put on a robe and walked down the stairs. The noises grew louder, and sounded much more haphazard than just noise for the sake of noise. She slowed down and listened hard. Two voices angrily whispering things back and forth while making that racket. Burglars, probably. Great.

She turned on the light and saw a man and a woman rummaging through her china drawers. They looked at her like deer in headlights, and she folded her arms.

"No use in asking you to put those back," she stated dryly. "But I think there is some use in asking you to leave before I call the police. Don't you?" The two looked at each other in confusion. They obviously didn't have much experience. "Well? Are we going to be here all night?"

What happened was too fast for her to properly react to until she was in a headlock with a knife held to her throat. That was the girl. Her breath reeked of alcohol. That explained the clumsiness more.

"Okay you old bat," the girl hissed. Constance closed her eyes and steadied her breathing. "You're gonna be still and quiet while we finish up here. Then we're gonna leave, and you aren't gonna call anyone. How does that sound?"

"Does that include you not making so much noise? You'll wake my grandson up." The girl tightened her grip.

"Is that supposed to be a fucking joke?" she hissed. "We don't care about waking your grandson up. Some kid's not gonna give us any trouble. He could be fuckin' Baby Jesus and we would wake him up." Constance resisted the strong urge to snort at the derisive 'Baby Jesus" statement. If only they knew he was anything but. For her own sake, she decided to play the feeble old grandmother. Maybe they'd leave faster.

"Please, he'd call the police if he saw this." Lie. "I don't want him to get hurt, he's too precious to get hurt, I don't want you to hurt him." Half-truth. She didn't want to see them attempt. She only just convinced him to leave the stray cats that wandered around alone.

"What part of 'we don't give a shit' do you not understand, you old coot?" She slapped her across the face. Constance grunted in pain but refrained from rubbing her stinging cheek. Best not to provoke them any-

"Grandma?" Michael stood halfway down the stairs in his pajamas, with a worried look on his face. The girl held the knife closer to Constance's neck.

"Stay right there," she demanded. He gave no indication of wanting to move. The man raised a gun and pointed it at Michael.

"Grandma?" he repeated.

"It's okay, sweetie," she said as reassuringly as possible. "I'm okay. Just stay there."

"They hit you." His voice and face deadpanned. He moved a step down. The man pointed his gun at his chest.

"Don't move!"

"They hit you," he repeated. She heard the anger bubbling under the surface of his words. And the fire burning behind his cold gaze.

"Michael," she repeated again, more firmly. The two thieves interpreted that as _Don't provoke them _. He knew she was really saying _Don't _.____

_____ _

_____ _

"Listen to your granny, kid," the man growled. "You don't want her to get hurt, do you?"

"Is that a threat?" He took a step down. The knife pressed into her throat more, but with a shaky hand.

"It's... it's a promise!" The man practically shrieked that. Step.

"Is it?" Step.

"Don't fucking move! I swear it!" Step.

"Or what?"

"We'll kill the bitch, we'll kill both of you!" Step. All the way down the stairs. He smiled, and it chilled Constance's soul. His smile finally reached his eyes, but she wished it didn't. They both had the same twisted sneer, the same cruel joy at this situation.

"Do it."

"What?" both thieves gasped. He shrugged.

"Do it. You promised you'd kill us. Do it." They looked at each other.

"Are you serious? You want your grandmother dead?" Constance rolled her eyes. Michael noticed and smiled wider.

"Sweetie, you know it's rude to keep people waiting," she chided. He nodded with a pout.

"Fine."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" the girl shrieked. Michael walked to them until he stood right in front of the man's gun, grabbing his hand and pressing it to his chest.

"Kill us if you want. We're open and vulnerable. What's stopping you?"

"Michael Langdon, what did I just tell you?" He pouted again.

"But-"

"No buts. Stop being rude and tell them what you mean."

Actually, she might have been too quick to prefer Michae's teenage years over Tate's.

At least Tate dished out quick deaths.

Michael broke the man's arm then shot him in the leg with the gun. The girl let go of Constance in shock, and she took that opportunity to elbow her in the stomach and push her away. Michael shot the girl in the leg as well, and pulled his grandmother out of the way. She stumbled back onto the stairs and rubbed the spot on her neck where the knife was. No blood. Good. She looked up at her grandson and almost vomited.

Michael had thrown the knife across the room and was strangling the girl. The man slowly dragged himself across the room towards the two. Michael turned around and slammed his head into the tile floor repeatedly. As he turned, she saw that his eyes had turned from piercing blue to milky white. The girl screamed and coughed and tried to get him to stop. Constance could only watch as her grandson switched between the two before apparently getting bored, grabbing the knife, and slashing both of their throats.

As they bled out, he dipped his fingers into their blood and breathed out a deranged laugh. He swirled it around for a few seconds before turning to her. The white changed back to blue, and he walked to the stairs; kneeling down, he held his hands with the palms up in front of her. Like when he was a baby and he killed Flora. He had the same smile, too. But this one didn't have the same glee he did that time. This smile also had a pleading need for approval. She could tell that he wanted her to be proud.

She remembered Addy. Her pleading eyes when she came home with a face full of makeup and declaring to be a pretty girl now, look Mama I'm a pretty girl.

She gave a soft, sad smile.

She ran a hand through his hair, and he smiled even wider.

"What am I going to do with you?"


	4. Flying the Nest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two people from a school pay a visit.

Michael's first thought of _What the hell _? at seeing Grandma actually let two men in suits inside the house accidentally slipped out of his mouth. He didn't realize it until she scolded him with, "Michael Langdon!"__

____

__"Sorry." He blushed in embarrassment but walked up to the three adults. The two men in suits didn't look too phased at an adolescent swearing in surprise. She pulled him close to her and tightly gripped his shoulder. He bit the inside of his cheek but smiled at them._ _

"I apologize for my grandson's language," she sweetly told them. "I don't have a habit of welcoming strangers, so his confusion is understandable." They nodded.

"Well, we're used to that reaction, so it's fine."

"Shall we go to the living room?" she suggested. They acquiesced and followed the Langdons, sitting down on the couch. Grandma took her favorite chair, and he sat in between the two pieces of furniture.

"Well, let's cut to the chase," the second one said. "Michael, is it?" He nodded. "Michael, we're members of a coven,"- what- "and we've noticed that you"- what- "have special abilities"- what- "that we think we can help you to fine-tune and use better,"- what- "as well as maybe teach you some new things you can do."- what- "Would you be interested in coming with us?"- what. He blinked a few times while staring at the ground. A lot of information in two sentences. He looked at Grandma. She looked back at him and shrugged.

"Michael, it's your decision. I'm not going to influence you in any way." She sounded sad. He could understand that, since the concept of a 'coven' implied staying away from home. He nodded at he and looked at the men.

"What happens in the... coven?"

"Well, there will obviously be classes on the general aspects to witchcraft, but since most of us specialize, we also have smaller classes on that speciality."

"Why me?"

"Have you read Harry Potter?"

"Yes."

"It's a lot like that. At a certain point in our lives, our abilities manifest themselves rather strongly. Although, you are one of the older ones to have this manifestation." Older than most of the people at the coven. That statement was actually funny considering that he looked around eighteen or nineteen. He had just turned four. He smiled at them.

"Does that make me one of the sage elders?" he asked. They chuckled at that joke while his mind raced for an answer. By the time they told him he was funny, he arrived at a decision. But he still had one big question.

"I'll come." Grandma squeezed his hand. "Just one question."

"Yes?"

"Will I be able to write home?"


	5. An Empty Nest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance has to deal with her grandson living in a coven, and both of the living Langdons get a nasty piece of news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is where I'm probably going to be deviating A LOT from what Apocalypse is going to tell us. To be fair, only two episodes are out as of this chapter being written. When we learn more, I'll probably go back and revise stuff to better fit what's going on. Until then, bear with any vague details in his past because there's no freaking information.

Constance forgot how a house devoid of children felt. After all, Addy had only been dead a short time before Michael was born. Those few weeks, however, were the loneliest weeks of her life.

Michael had gone to the coven, promising to write after getting affirmation that it was allowed. As always, he was indifferent to the people around him and the situation he was in; that being said, he did seem a little bit sad when he waved goodbye to her from the car. Then he turned and didn't look back. And she was left alone.

Such was the life of any parent, she supposed. Watching the person you raised leave to make their own path for themselves, suddenly more grown than you remembered, and having to come to terms with the fact that your nest was now empty.

So that is what parents of college kids meant.

Beau, smothered and a spirit in the house next door. Tate, shot and a spirit in the house next door. Addy, hit by a car and somewhere in the afterlife finally at peace. She never had that feeling the other parents did. Sure, there was the loss, but that was in relation to mourning.

Well, she had done her part, and now she just had to pray that he'd at least remember she'd tried her best when he inevitably brought about the End Times. Hopefully he'd remember and, if she was still alive, maybe give her a quick death. If that happened, she would consider her job as a parent accomplished. No matter how badly she fucked it up until four years ago.

Get a grip, Constance, she told herself. He's gone, and you're alone, and now you can hope that whatever they do at that coven won't give him any ideas.

At least she could feed the neighborhood's stray cats again.

She grabbed an envelope and stationary and sat down at the table. Might as well write, even if there wouldn't be an answer.

Surprisingly, an answer did arrive, and not one of those mass-produced 'please do not contact us again' letters. A physical letter, from her grandson, in his handwriting. That encouraged her, so she sent another one. Another reply. Eventually they settled into a system, give or take some delays. National holidays and what she could only assume were exams were the main causes. He never gave any indication of his schedule or what on Earth he was doing over there. She didn't know wether or not that was disappointing.

She sent him the keychain Billie gave her- minus the silver and religious items with it- and he sent back a few samples of plants they used; she did have to scold him in her reply for stealing those, but they both knew she loved them. On his birthday she sent him a handmade card and one of her father's rings. He sent back a thank-you and a picture of him wearing it. She was glad he liked it.

Months passed, and their routine spread out from weekly to every two weeks. His letters grew shorter and with less emotional investment, at least in her view. She didn't push, but she eventually asked him if he wanted to stop regularly writing and only do it if they wanted to. He said yes.

\----

Michael sat down at his desk and started a letter. It had been a while- which he didn't care about- but he wanted to tell her what had just happened. What he managed to do.

Someone knocked at the door and slipped something under the door. He saw an envelope with Grandma's handwriting on it and grabbed it. His letter could wait. He opened it as he made his way to the desk. By the time he sat down, his already-pale face was white as a sheet, and he felt light-headed. He reread it several times before placing it down with a shaky hand. The desk light caught on part of his ring and made it shine. He rubbed it with his thumb numbly.

Eventually he stood up and started packing. He grabbed the letter and walked out the door. They'd understand why he'd leave so suddenly when he showed them its contents.

Grandma had a heart attack, and the hospital didn't think she would last very long.


	6. Only Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last goodbye between grandmother and grandchild. And Constance finally tells him some things that might have been helpful sooner. And this chapter will probably be the defining moment of when I diverge from canon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Episode 3 came out this week and... Yeah, I don't care who it turns out to actually be he totally modeled certain things after Constance. That memory? The only woman who understood him? Come on. Constance. Fight me.
> 
> For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, A LOT happened in three episodes, and most of it was contained in just one.

Michael's nails dug into his palms as he followed the nurse through the hospital. He saw the room number. He could find it. He could move much faster. The only problem is that he might be held back and end up taking longer to get to her room than if he just sucked it up and acted like he didn't know how to find a fucking room. He could feel the blood seeping under his nails by the time they reached it.

The nurse told Grandma who he was then left the room. He didn't waste any time and pulled a chair next to her bed, sitting down and gripping her outstretched hand with both of his. Cold. Even colder than his. He rubbed it as gently as he could.

"Grandma," he whispered, "I can help. I learned things. Let me help you. I can get you back." She shook her head with a sad smile.

"Don't waste it on me."

"But I can help you. I can bring you back."

"But can you fix me?" He shook his head. "Don't waste it on me, then. I'd rather just die once and get it over with." He bit his lip but eventually nodded. "I never thought I'd see you try to stop death, Mr. Why-Can't-I-Torment-The-Stray-Cats."

"You're different from cats. You actually mean something."

"I'm flattered," she replied dryly. "But, tell me about what you've been up to."

Michael internally debated wether or not he should actually say what had just happened. What would it matter? She was going to die in the end.

"I just did..." What words could he use? He didn't even know what had happened. "It... it was basically one of those juries in college you told me about, but it wasn't for a grade or deciding to stay or anything like that. It was to push your limits. See what you could do. And I did everything. I did everything they wanted me to." She smiled at him and patted his cheek.

"I am so proud of you. You know that, right?" He nodded.

"Yeah. I know." He looked at the monitor. "What happened?"

"Baby, when you get to be my age you don't know if you'll be take out by a stroke or a cough. My smoking over a few decades never helped, and after..." she paused and seemed to figure out how to phrase it the best, "after my third child died, my body's ability to handle anything remotely stressful plummeted." He frowned at the rephrasing.

"After what?"

"Michael-"

"After what, Grandma?" She sighed and looked down, like she couldn't even look him in the eyes. Suddenly, he felt the full extent of their age difference; she looked ancient and experienced in a way that had never shown during his short lifetime, and he by extension felt like a small, five-year-old child by her side. Eventually she opened her mouth to answer his question.

"That damn house. I wish we never moved there. I wish I was strong enough to leave it. I wish I left after you were born, but I was too much of a damn coward to just leave." She looked at him, and he could see tears forming in her waterline. "You know, I lived there for years with my husband and children. We were fine. Even when I found him with my maid in bed and shot the two of them, we were fine. Until that house proved that it really does have ghosts."

Michael's mouth turned dry. He thought the ghost stories were fake, that it was just hype around some deaths that happened not even in this century. And now she tells him that the hordes of ghosts everyone says are in there actually are? He couldn't even think about where to start a reply when she continued the story.

"Nora Montgomery- yes, the wife of the abortionist- took a liking to Tate. She spends her entire afterlife in that house looking for a fucking baby after hers was stolen. And when there's a small boy with doe-like brown eyes and blond curls, everyone pays attention. She tried to take him. In many ways, I know that she got to him. He was all over seeing her and playing with her, but even then I stayed. After Beau, after I killed two people, I stayed. I only left with Addy after Tate-" a sob cut her off, and he rubbed her hand again. She looked at him with tears rolling down her face.

"My son Tate. He killed so many of the people that moved in there. So many ghosts in that house that he now has to deal with. When he started a relationship with Violet Harmon, I was with her parents voicing concerns that it wouldn't end well. None of us knew. God, I thought he'd just kill them and convince her that it was an act of love from some twisted romance. And then I learned that he wanted Nora to have a baby. Do you know what he did?" He shook his head. "He raped Violet's mother Vivian and got her pregnant. A set of twins with two different fathers."

"The twin he made... was me." She wiped her eyes with a nod then pulled at his arm. He leaned forward.

"Nora wasn't the only one who wanted you and your brother. So many others were closing in and waiting for the first chance they got," she hissed. "Your mother died giving birth, and your brother took one breath then followed her. Violet was already dead, and her father Ben was hung by a bunch of pissed-off spirits for trying to get you away from them. The Harmons are the only decent ones in there. Nora too, as much as I hate to say it. You're going to want to see them, but don't stay in there. Even with what you've learned at that coven, you won't be protected. If you visit, ask for Violet, have a short chat, and don't go near that place again." She leaned back and squeezed his hand. That whole story took something out of her, and it looked like she put some of her last efforts into telling him everything. He leaned over her.

"Grandma," he whispered, "I know you don't want me to help. But I can help it not hurt."

"You mean killing me?"

"Yes."

"Just don't do any chanting or anything. That's where I draw the line." He laughed at that.

"None of that. I promise. Just going to sleep then... somewhere."

"I mean, I'm almost asleep, so we're halfway there." She looked almost asleep. That would make it easier.

"Do you want to do it now?"

"Might as well." He didn't expect that answer. Some part of him wanted her to say wait. But she didn't. Like with all other areas of life, Grandma made up her mind and was sticking with it until her last breath. Quite literally this time.

"Thank you. For everything."

"I'm just glad you turned out okay. Well, okay considering some of the other people I raised."

"Even with the cats?" Her turn to laugh.

"The cats weren't the worst you've done, nor are they the worst thing any of you have done."

"You tried. That's all that matters."

"I'm flattered. I'm flattered that you actually think you weren't the exception."

"What?"

"Listen Michael, humanity is shit. We're all shitty. Even the most loving and generous and decent of us can be shitty, evil motherfuckers given the right circumstances. Accept it and move on."

"That's probably one of the most practical pieces of advice you've given me."

"I try. Now, stop stalling and get on with it." He bit his lip.

"...I'm going to miss you."

"Come here." She motioned for him to give her a hug; he obliged and buried his face in her shoulder. Cold, soft hands ran through his hair. He closed his eyes and tried to memorize everything about her. He heard shaky breaths but didn't look. He was on the verge of crying himself. The hands in his hair tapped his face, and he looked up. She was crying. That made him cry. She gave a sad smile and brushed his cheeks.

"What am I going to do with you?"

"I don't know."

"Neither do I." He knew that he couldn't delay her death any more because if he did, he wouldn't be able to. So he took a breath and held his hands up for her.

"Hold them." She did, and he gently squeezed them before focusing on her pulse. "This shouldn't hurt. Just stay where you are." He felt her slowly dying. He saw her getting weaker. He heard the heart monitor's beeps slow down and grow faint. He just stared at her hands and focused. His vision blurred with tears. He kept focusing. His hands shook. He kept focusing.

Eventually, she died, and he let go of her with a sob. She flatlined, doctors and nurses ran into the room, but he didn't pay attention. It was just background noise. He just stared at her dead body lying in front of him and finally let himself cry. He couldn't remember when he last cried. Never. This was the first time in his life he was crying.

A nurse pulled him out of the room, and he numbly followed her. She started gently giving condolences and sympathy and he knew it was genuine but it just made him angry and when she put an arm on his shoulder she gasped and yanked it back.

"Honey, you're burning up." She intently looked at his face, probably for some other indication of illness. "Are you okay."

"Yes," he choked out. She didn't believe him, though, and started to lead him to get checked on. He couldn't have that, so he pulled her aside and hissed, "It's fine. I'm fine. I don't need it." She turned white and weakly nodded. He left the hospital as quickly as he could.

A few hours later, several charred bodies of stray cats were found all over the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think I'm being hella vague about the whole coven thing, I am. But the trailer for next episode will probably have more magic action, so this might be updated a bit.


	7. Seven for a Secret Never to Be Told

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billie Dean Howard makes a final appearance, and she and Michael... talk about... a few things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realized after making the title that this is Ch. 7 and I would like everyone to know that was unintentional. The reference to that magpie poem, however, was.

Billie Dean knocked on the door and bit the inside of her cheek. Every cell in her body screamed for her to run, to just leave before the knock could be answered. She desperately wanted to, but she had to do this. For Constance. So she stayed and bit her cheek and wrung her hands and prayed that she wouldn't be killed.

Michael opened the door. He stared at her, and she stared back. Holy. Shit. He had definitely grown into his body and carried it like his rapid aging was- in fact- normal. That in and of itself was intimidating, but when paired with his eyes it became downright scary. When they first met, his eyes were cold and sharp and detached but with a fire behind them; they clearly judged everyone and didn't approve of the results. She did remember, however, that whenever those eyes rested on his grandmother they softened. She clearly was the only one that had a less harsh verdict.

Those eyes were not looking at her.

The eyes looking at her were dead. The fire had been put out, and the ashes had been swept away. And the leftover empty shell stared at the world with a cruel hatred that was clearly done with simple judging. And at the moment, that hatred was fixed on her. Her "second intuition"- as she sometimes called it- could feel the anger radiating from him, as well as a sense of broken hopelessness underneath.

Good God, Constance's death did something to him.

Those eyes finally stopped staring directly into hers when he moved out of the way so she could step in. She did and meekly followed him through the house until they reached the dining room. She looked at the papers and pens and the open computer on the table.

"You knew why I was coming?" He nodded.

"Don't ask how. I don't even know."

"You've been practicing outside of what they've been teaching you, haven't they?"

"Yes." She dropped the subject at the harsh acknowledgement.

"What was in her will?" He handed her a copy, as well as some copies of legal transactions, paperwork, and other real estate-type things. She looked them over.

"I get everything. She probably would've picked someone else, but every other candidate is dead. I honestly think she wasn't expecting me to outlive her, or that something would happen before this would actually have to be dealt with."

"So you're transferring everything to me since I knew her and know what to do with it."

"And you're a notary."

"How-"

"I just do." She pursed her lips but finished looking everything over.

"For someone who doesn't really know the first thing about this, you've actually prepared pretty decently." The corners of his mouth raised slightly.

He really did know what he was doing, surprisingly. That was one of the most confusing parts. He knew what he was doing and knew what questions to ask and what he should ask. And she knew he didn't learn that. He just knew what to do, he just knew she was a registered notary, and he knew she she wanted to talk with him about Constance. That she was not prepared for, and that she was most freaked out by. But she kept herself composed and showed him everything and went through the motions until somehow, somehow they got everything done in a few hours. She didn't question how. She wanted to say her thing and leave. At the last signature, he leaned back in his chair, and she all but collapsed onto the table.

"What were you here for?" he asked. Well, more like demanded now that the facade of polite respect was no longer necessary.

"What did Constance say to you?"

"She said a lot of things. What do you want to hear?" Dangerous phrasing. She sat up straighter.

"I don't want to hear anything. I know that she told you about what you are. I want to know what she told you."

"Why are you so afraid of me?" He tilted to the side. Yes, his gaze was hateful and predatory, but there was also a genuine curiosity there. He really did want to know. "The first time I saw you, I know you wanted to be anywhere but in the room with me. You still want to be away. I heard you tell my grandmother that I would be better off dead. Why? Why does what she told me matter?"

Holy shit.

He didn't know.

"She didn't tell you."

"Tell me what?" he hissed. She leaned forward and looked him in the eye.

"When God sent the Holy Spirit to the Virgin May, He but whispered in her ear and the Christ was conceived. Satan wanted a little more bang for his buck." She stood up. "I'll get out of your hair."


	8. Meet the Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tearful reunion with the Harmons and a less tearful reunion with Tate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You though you were done with the feelings? You were wrong!

Michael cautiously opened the back door to the "Murder House". Even with all the new information about it, he couldn't help but see it as an overhyped tourist attraction. But almost as soon as he closed the door, the energy changed. More alive, more chaotic, more compelling, almost suffocating. He looked everywhere he could in the room but saw nothing. So he kept walking with a wary eye out for one of the supposedly many occupants.

It was a beautiful house. Maybe that was why so many people had lived and died I it even with the reputation. He could certainly see himself growing up in it if things had been different.

Focus, Michael. Find Violet.

He finally gave up actually looking by the time he reached the front door. If anyone was actually watching him, they didn't want to be seen. So he looked up and quietly called, "Violet?"

"Present," a girl's voice responded from behind. He turned and saw a blonde girl- probably fourteen or fifteen- sitting on the staircase with one hand propping up her cheek. She smiled mischievously at him and sarcastically raised her hand. "How can I help?"

"I'm Michael. Michael Langdon." For some reason, seeing his apparent half-sister drove most of his composure away and left him awkwardly stuttering. "Constance Langdon's grandson. She- she told me to come here and ask for you..." That had to be the worst possible introduction he had ever given in his life. This interaction was going so well already.

Violet narrowed her eyes. "Constance's grandson..." The lightbulb went off, and she straightened, eyes sparkling. "Holy shit! You're the one that got out! Oh my god!" She jumped up and ran up to him, hugging him tightly. That caught him off guard, but he awkwardly hugged back. The top of her head came up to his chest, and the faint scent of cigarette smoke lingered in the air around her. She let go and stepped back, practically bouncing with excitement. "It's so great to finally meet you! I mean, we've already met, I was there when you were born, but still! You're here! Shit, you're tall!" He laughed at her stream of consciousness. He couldn't help it; her excitement was contagious.

"You don't seem surprised that a five-year-old looks like he's in his early twenties." She shrugged.

"You were kicking at eight weeks, so I'd be more surprised if you were a little kid." So he really had always been like this. That was... comforting. "Oh! You probably wanna meet Mom and Dad and Jeffery- that's your brother! Come on, I can take you to them! Well, I don't know where Mom is, but I know where Dad and Jeffery are." She bounded up the stairs, and he followed her. He didn't bother to correct her that they had different fathers. He had the chance to meet his family, and that was more important than the details. The most excitement he had felt since... Actually, he didn't think he'd ever been this excited before. Sure, he'd had excitement, but this was different somehow. More... personal. He wasn't sure if he liked it or not.

Violet led him to what looked like the master bedroom. A man with short dark hair and some stubble was pacing and muttering things to a baby that had obviously just calmed down after a bit of crying. He looked at the two and frowned.

"Violet, who's this? And what are you doing bringing random people up here?" Violet grinned and shook her head.

"Actually, he isn't random. Dad, this," she mad a grand sweep of her arm in Michael's direction, "is Michael. The alive twin."

Her father's expression immediately changed to one of relief and surprise, and he let out a few soft curses under his breath. Handing Violet the baby- Jeffery, she had called him- he walked over to Michael and hugged him tightly. This time he was prepared for it and hugged him back. He let go a few seconds later and smiled with slight embarrassment.

"Sorry, I just got excited." Michael shook his head and mirrored his smile.

"No, it's completely fine. I understand."

"I'm Ben," he introduced and offered his hand. Michael took it. It was ice cold, much colder than he had ever felt. Most definitely dead. "I don't really expect you to call me 'Dad' or anything like that, since I'm not really." Michael shook his head.

"You still took care of me, even if it was a short time. I honestly always thought of you as my father." Relief spread over Ben's face, and he clapped his shoulder.

"Thank you. That means a lot." He could see tears threatening to fall. It really did mean a lot to him. If Michael was being honest with himself, it meant a lot to him, too.

Violet interrupted them by holding her brother up. "And this is Jeffery. Your twin." She offered the baby to Michael, who gingerly took him and held him. He'd never held a baby before, and he didn't want to hurt him, ghost or not.

He looked at his dead twin and murmured, "Hello again." The baby looked back, and there was a gleam of recognition. He cooed happily and reached towards Michael's face. He started a bit but let his small, cold fingers brush his cheek. A baby. A baby forever. He'd stay fragile and innocent forever until the end of everything. He'd never grow like Michael had, albeit much slower. Ironic how they really were complete opposites of each other. A feral part of Michael wanted to try to take at least some of that innocence away, have him grow up just a little to defeat the irony. Hurt him, claw at him, throw him down and let him slowly die a painful death. See the pure happiness become pure agony to have him know what he eventually would have learned in life. What Michael had to learn.

Instead, he handed his brother back to Violet, who took him and bounced him in her arms. "Where's mom?" she asked.

"In the office," Ben answered. "She and Moira are using the 'divide-and-conquer' cleaning method." Violet laughed, but Michael was confused.

"Who's Moira?"

"The resident maid," she explained. "Your grandma shot her in the eye when she caught her husband sleeping with her. Shot him too." She tilted her head to the side. "Did she tell you anything like that?" Michael shrugged.

"She said she killed her husband. I never really pushed her. She only recently even told me that this wasn't an overhyped tourist attraction."

"How is she, by the way?" Ben asked.

"She died a few days ago." Both Violet and Ben made sympathetic faces.

"That really sucks," she said. Michael shrugged again, this time less nonchalant.

"At least it wasn't painful." Ben nodded in agreement.

"Always a good way to go. But you probably want to see your mother." A welcome change in subject. Michael nodded.

"Yes." He started to turn to Violet, then stopped and impulsively hugged Ben again. He stiffened in surprise but hugged back tightly.

"Thank you," Michael whispered. "For everything." Ben nodded against his shoulder.

"I was my pleasure," he whispered back. He finally let his tears fall and gripped Michael's hand tightly. "It was really good to see you again." Michael squeezed back then turned to Violet, who handed Jeffery to her father and led him out of the room.

On their way to the office, they passed a brunette with really heavy eye makeup. She looked at Michael and flirtatiously grinned at him. "I haven't seen you here before. Are you new?" Violet rolled her eyes.

"Fuck off Hayden." She ignored her and gripped his arm in a way that implied he had to chat wether or not he actually wanted to.

"Come on, I'm just making conversation." He coldly stared at her and yanked his arm out of her grip, much to her surprise.

"I wouldn't fuck you if you were alive. Have a nice night." He turned around and followed his sister, leaving a shocked ghost gawking at them. When they were out of earshot, Violet giggled.

"Man, it's nice seeing her put in her place. She's annoying as shit."

"She looks like a nuisance." She nodded and pulled a cigarette out of her pocket. Michael raised an eyebrow.

"They let you smoke?"

"Nope. But I'm gonna leave you out the door and sneak to the front porch. You should have privacy. Speaking of which," they stopped at another door, "here we are. You can just go in. She'll be cool with it." He nodded and hugged her. He was doing a lot more hugging than he expected. Not that he was complaining.

"It was nice meeting you." She smiled at him.

"Nice meeting you too. Hopefully I'll see you around at some point. Probably not, but it's nice to think that." He nodded.

"Probably not, but yeah, it's not a bad way to leave." She walked away, turning and waving to him before disappearing around the corner. He liked her. He would have enjoyed growing up with her as a big sister.

He looked at the door and took a deep breath. His mother, his real mother, was inside. Cleaning. He had no idea why he was so nervous, but he was. No use wasting time. He knocked. A few seconds, then a, "You don't have to knock, Violet. I'm not that busy." He tentatively opened the door, stepped inside, then closed it. Then he turned around and looked at her.

A woman with strawberry blonde hair was dusting one of the bookshelves with her back turned. She looked behind her shoulder with a smile then froze when she saw him. He looked at her kind face and kind eyes and held his breath. His mother. His mother. He opened his mouth slightly, but no words came out. He couldn't say anything. He watched her set the rag down and turn to fully face him; she obviously recognized him but didn't know how. They stared at each other, both barely breathing. He knew she fully recognized him when her hand went to her stomach. He nodded shakily. She was shaking, too. They both were. She cautiously smiled, tears running down her face. She started to slowly and cautiously walk towards him. Like she was afraid that he'd disappear. He stayed where he was. He couldn't move. She stopped in front of him, and they looked at each other. She smiled wider, and he smiled back. A true smile. A happy smile. Not the fake, detached smile he always gave people. A genuine smile that he genuinely gave. Gave to his mother. She caressed his cheeks with her cold, shaky hands; he felt himself crying and smiled more.

"Hi," she breathed. "Hi, baby." Baby. Her baby. He was her baby. Much like when in the hospital with Grandma, he felt his age; in that moment, he truly was a small child with his mother.

"Hi, Mama," he choked out. Mama. He'd never even thought to use it. In his head she had always been 'Mother'. But saying it felt right. Calling her that felt right.

"I missed you." He nodded and allowed himself to be pulled forward into a gentle hug. He buried his face in her shoulder and let himself sob with her. So this is what it would feel like. Of course, Grandma would hold him like this- mostly for her comfort, since he never really needed it before now- but it wasn't from mother to child. This was. And even while they were sobbing he loved being held. It felt good.

Eventually, both of them couldn't cry anymore, and she held his head in front of her. To get a better look. She smiled and whispered, "You're just as beautiful as you were when you were born." He smiled.

"Thank you. Grandma said I got my face from you."

"Where is she?"

"Dead." No emotion in that statement. He went numb every time he thought of it. He didn't know if he would ever feel differently, or if he wanted to. She made a sympathetic face. "I'm more okay now."

"At least you got a somewhat decent upbringing," she muttered. He couldn't help but giggle at that. She rubbed his cheek fondly. "I want to see more of you, but something tells me that won't happen."

He nodded. "Just once. I'm not even staying in L.A. after this."

"Where will you go?"

"I don't know. Somewhere."

"Be careful, baby." He nodded and rubbed her free hand. "Be careful."

"I will." They probably had different definitions of 'careful,' but that would be inevitable. She wasn't the spawn of Satan, after all. "I'm going to miss you." She smiled a soft, sad smile. That hurt him in a strange way. The smile made him feel like he'd been stabbed in the gut. He didn't like it. He wanted it to go away.

"I missed you every day. I'll keep missing you." She pulled him down a little and kissed the top of his head. He started to cry again, and she was, too. He kissed her cheek.

"I can't stay with you longer," he whispered. Feeling her shake was like the smile, but worse. It was like Grandma telling him to kill her. He didn't want to. "I don't want to leave, and I'll stay in the house if I don't go now." She nodded against his shoulder. He kissed her cheek again, and she squeezed his hand.

"I love you."

"I... I love you, too."

He left the room as quickly as he could and managed to get down the stairs before crumpling onto the floor. He started to sob again, as well as gasping and wheezing; it felt like he couldn't breathe. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. That wasn't fair. None of it was fair. He shouldn't have even come in. He should have just stayed in the house where there wasn't any ghosts and he didn't have to see his sister bouncing on her feet while introducing herself or his brother forever stuck as an infant and their father lovingly holding a baby and accepting him as his son and his mother seeing him and crying and calling him her baby because there weren't any ghosts in that house there were just creaky floors and old furniture and the only haunting thing about it was the fact that it had Grandma's things but not her ghost so he didn't have to deal with the fact that he killed her like he killed his mother and now he was going away but he'd still remember her crying he just should have stayed at the house and not put himself through this.

He didn't know how long he stayed on his back, but it felt like weeks. The house had a weird presence, like it existed out of time. Regardless, he knew he took way too long to actually calm down. So he stood up and brushed the dirt and dust off of his clothes and looked for the basement. He had one more visit before leaving.

He knew what his father looked like from the pictures Grandma kept on the mantle. She didn't talk about her children, but he knew their names. Beau, Addy, and Tate. Tate was the blonde one, and also the one she never talked about. That was the man responsible for his birth. Grandma had mentioned that he liked spending time in the basement, so that was the first place he would look.

On his way, he saw a woman with dark red hair dressed as a maid wiping down the kitchen counter. She looked up at him, and he took a step back in surprise. Her face. Something was wrong with her face. Her whole body, but mostly her face. It was young and smooth and beautiful, but then it was older with a cloudy blue eye one side. It kept switching and even combining the two. It made his head hurt. She tilted her head to the side. Both faces were confused.

"Can I help you?" she asked. Smooth and sensual. High and wispy.

"Who are you?" he gasped. "What do you actually look like?" Both sets of eyes widened in surprise.

"You can see... both of them?" He nodded dumbly. "What are you? No one sees both."

"What do they see?"

"Men see the young girl who got shot in the face by the angry wife of a cheating husband." Moira? The girl Grandma shot? "Women see the tired ghost whose soul was much older than her body."

"You're Moira."

"How do you know that?"

"My grandma told me she shot you. Is that in your cloudy eye?"

"Yes. Are you the other twin?" He nodded. "I hope you don't plan on staying here."

"I don't. I just talked with my mother. I want to talk with Tate."

"Why?"

"Closure." She sighed. Her older face actually stayed for more than three seconds. "He's in the basement. Be careful down there."

"Thank you." He left her to her cleaning and shook his head to try clearing it. It didn't work. What the hell did the house do to her to make her like that? This place was turning out to be more fucked up than he thought.

He found the basement and went down. He found a blond teen messing around with some dusty boxes that were more dust than box. Tate Langdon. The teen turned around, saw him, and frowned.

"Who the hell are you?" Confrontational. Great. They'd definitely have a pleasant conversation.

"Your son," Michael replied shortly. Tate's eyes widened, and Michael was happy to see some element of fear.

"What are you doing here?"

Michael took a step forward. Tate took a step back.

"I'm here to meet my family one time before I move away."

"You don't live here."

"Next door. With my grandmother who recently passed away."

Another step back. Eyes widened more.

"She's dead? Did you kill her?"

"She wanted to go before it got painful and slow."

"What do you want?"

"Closure. I want to see the person who raped my mother."

"How the fuck are you this old? You shouldn't be this old."

"Oh, you didn't know?"

Step forward. Step back. Step forward. Step back.

"Know what?"

Step forward. Step back against the wall.

"When you got her pregnant to give me away to a mentally unstable ghost, you created the Antichrist."

Tate gasped.

"Bullshit."

"No."

"You can't be serious."

"Jesus was the Holy Ghost just tapping May's arm-"

"You're fucking with-"

"-You should see that Satan might want to get some action to make the opposite." Tate shook his head and kept shaking his head.

"I didn't do it because of Satan. I did it for Nora." Michael shrugged.

"I mean, you pretty much handed him that opportunity on a silver platter."

"I didn't want to-"

"To bad. You did. And I'm here now, talking to you."

"What do you want?" Tate's voice raised an octave. It made Michael want to laugh, but he only let himself smirk.

"I want to see you. I want to see how you're suffering in your own personal hell while the world moves on and forgets that you even existed. And I want to laugh in your face."

Tears. Tate started to cry. It was pathetic.

"Why?"

"Why not? I have every right to want you to be hurting after what you did to my mother. You're a horrible person. But I also just like it. I like people being miserable. It's fun. What better satisfaction is there? I have entertainment and get to see you get some form of karma for what you did. Nothing better than that."

Tate didn't say anything. Michael didn't say anything, either. He waited. He wanted to see the full effect of his words. Eventually, it became clear that there wasn't going to be anything. Michael turned to go back up the stairs. Tate started to follow him, but he ignored the ghost. Then the timid footsteps became more confident and faster, and Michael felt the aggression in those footsteps. He turned around and saw Tate holding something in his hand; he didn't bother to pretend to be scared and used his magic to throw him across the room. He strode across the room and gripped the dazed ghost's throat; Tate gasped and clawed at his hand, but he didn't let go. He leaned forward until their faces were almost touching.

"Don't think about it," he growled. "I can actually do shit to you that you wouldn't believe was possible. Don't think about doing shit to me, don't think about doing shit to my family, don't think about even interacting with my mother." He let go and walked out of the basement without a backward glance.

He left the house without another incident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appear to have amassed a large amount of people who love what I'm doing with Michael. This is super humbling, and I'm glad that y'all are liking this!


	9. Seven for the Devil, His Own Self

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael decides to have a chat with the Devil, who looks very different than he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the love I'm getting! It means so much, and I'm so glad that people are loving it.
> 
> AlsoyesI'mhavingSatanlooklikeSisterMaryEunicewhatareyougoingtodoaboutthat

Sixth time.

That was how many time Michael had attempted to correctly do a summoning. That was also how many times he had failed to do said summoning. He was getting pretty pissed, since he thought he was doing everything right.

He checked the books scattered around the small kitchen. Did that, did that, did that, had that, had that, had those. What was wrong? What was he missing-

Blood was probably something important.

He looked around the kitchen. He got up and went to the drawer with knives and opened it. Did he want to do this? Was this actually worth it?

Yes.

Do it.

He walked back to the spot he designated as where he would do his work. He already had the circle, the pattern, the candles, the direction, everything else prepared. Hopefully time number seven would work. If it didn't, he would give up and try a different way.

If he was the Antichrist, he should probably be in contact with the person who was his father by extension.

He took a deep breath and looked at his arm.

He plunged the knife just above his wrist and made a diagonal line. He grit his teeth and groaned from the pain and held the bleeding cut out over the symbol in the kitchen, spitting out the recommended incantation through gritted teeth. When he was done, he pressed the wound against his shirt to stop the blood. He held his breath.

Nothing happened. Disappointing. He started to bend down to blow out the candles when the atmosphere of the room changed. Thicker. Darker. Claustrophobic. He looked around but didn't see anything. But something was there. He hoped it was the right something. Otherwise an awkward conversation would take place.

Out of nowhere, the candles went out, and the kitchen lights with them. Michael looked around again. Still nothing. Gripping the still-dripping knife, he gingerly made his way across the kitchen. His hands found the light switch, and he flipped it to 'off' then 'on'. The lights came back, and he could feel the something standing behind him; he didn't want to look around. He didn't want to see what he managed to bring into his grandma's kitchen.

"I don't bite, you know." That...

He did not expect that voice.

The only thing he had been imagining was something deep and gravelly, or on the complete opposite side with smooth and silky hisses. This voice was neither. It was pleasant and... normal. Like he could hear it walking past someone on the street.

It also very definitively belonged to a woman.

He turned around and gasped, knife clattering to the floor. A woman barely taller than him sat on the counter, straight blonde hair falling around her slender shoulders; the ends of it touched the thin straps of her bright red slip, and she swung her smooth legs so that her black stilettos softly clacked against the wood. She was beautiful, but in an unsettling way. She looked cold and distant, like she was a reanimated statue instead of... whatever she was. Her dark eyes gave that off, too. Dark eyes. An understatement. Completely and totally pitch black. They stuck out against her pale face and light hair and made him shiver.

Now he understood why his appearance freaked people out.

She smiled- more like bared her teeth- and waved at him. "Glad you finally called. I was starting to think it would never happen."

So this was actually the Devil?

As if she read his thoughts, she said, "Yes, I am the Devil. Lord of Darkness himself. In the kitchen. Wearing lingerie while talking to his kid."

At least one of them was comfortable enough to crack jokes.

Michael certainly wasn't.

She hopped off of the counter and walked up to him, arms outstretched and a smirk on her face. Michael hesitantly took two steps as a way to meet her in the middle but froze again. She kept walking and gave him a tight hug. The surface of her skin was cold, but underneath he could feel heat radiating underneath; he felt that if her cold skin wasn't there, he could actually be burnt by her body heat. He timidly hugged her back. The way they held each other couldn't have been more different: he barely touched her out of fear; she gripped him tightly, possessively. Claiming him. One of her smooth hands ran through his hair and petted it; for some reason, that was comforting to him, and he slowly relaxed into the hug. She didn't move; she just held him and rubbed his head until he started to finally hug back. Then she let go and walked over to the fridge. The books scattered across the floor were kicked aside by the stilettos until she reached her destination, squatting down and opening the door. Eventually she pulled a champagne bottle out and held it up to him with a wry grin.

She moved to the cabinets and took out two bottles while saying, "This deserves some form of celebration. Have you ever had champagne?" She set two glasses on the counter.

Somehow Michael found his voice and stuttered a, "N-no, no I haven't." She turned around with mock surprise.

"The cat gave your tongue back! I'm so glad, I was getting worried." He couldn't help but laugh at that. She smiled at him and filled the two glasses; he accepted the one she offered. "Cheers." She held her glass out to him. He looked at it suspiciously.

"Will this be some kind of contract thing?" She snorted derisively.

"Please. I don't use clinking glasses to seal the deal. I use something that actually has weight. Smart that you're suspicious, though; I do take advantage of people's ignorance."

"Like what?"

"Well, blood contracts are effective. They're cliche and boring and I honestly am not a big fan, but they scare the hell out of the people doing it, and it's a great way to insure they hold up their end of the deal. I wouldn't recommend it."

"What would you recommend?"

"Personally I like kissing."

"Kissing?"

"It was used to seal contracts since the Bible. That's why people kiss at weddings; they're sealing their contract. Kissing is also personal and gives a much better association with the contract than blood or something gruesome, don't you think?" He had never thought that a kiss would be used for contracts. He also had never thought that the Devil would look like a cute woman. He was learning a lot today.

"Do you ever use sex?" She snorted again.

"Not for contracts. I use sex to bring people down and almost never do it myself. Don't get your hands dirty when you can get others to do the work for you." She made an insistent motion with the glass. "Come on. Cheers." He clinked it and took a sip. It was good, actually. Bubbly and a little bitter, but it tasted really good. He took a bigger sip. She had already downed her glass and was watching him with amusement. "You like it?"

"It's good," he responded with a nod.

"Good. Finish and we'll have a more real conversation. After your questions, of course."

"Why do you look like that?" She laughed.

"I thought that would be your first question. I don't look like this normally, but I enjoyed it the last time and decided that I'd dress up a bit to meet with you."

"Last time?"

"In the 60s. Around '64. I was in an asylum patient at the time because I was bored, but then they did an exorcism. I was pissed because I was enjoying the place, so I got inside a nun named Mary Eunice McKee. Sweet girl. Lovely temperament, kind heart, definitely would've made the place a lot better if she was head honcho." She shrugged. "I enjoyed the irony of possessing a nun and didn't do anything to make that place better. She actually owned this outfit but never wore it until I got her to. Once. I think it's lovely, honestly." Michael did admit that it was an outfit she could pull off, even if the original wearer was a shy nun.

"Where is she now?"

"Dead. Fell off a staircase, the klutz. I can still replicate the form, though." She gave a small twirl. "What do you think?"

"It's nice. You look really good." The image of his father dressed sexily was not a comfortable one, but he wasn't about to say that. She could see the discomfort, though.

"It's okay to say you don't like the urge to pull an Oedipus. I won't judge, and I won't make you fuck me." He breathed a sigh of relief, and she laughed. "You're too sweet. It's adorable, honestly."

"I use it to my advantage." A dark smile replaced the smirk. He shivered.

"Good. You should use it. Good looks are the best tool to get people to do what you want, and I want you to wield that tool; in fact, I want you to use it much more than you have."

"What do you mean?"

She took a step forward, and he wanted to back away; he didn't, however. That would be weak, and he wasn't about to show that weakness. Instead he looked at her and straightened his posture. She walked up to him and stopped only when their bodies were about to collide. He could feel her hot breath on his face; it smelled like burnt roses. Beautiful but also off-putting.

"You are beautiful with a face that could absolve all your wrongdoings with puppy eyes and a pout. A real Dorian Grey." She looked like she was studying his face. He couldn't tell if she was finding favorable results, but she talked like she did. "People will see you and not matter what reputation you have, you will be seen as adorable and precious. So far you've been using it to get away with petty crimes or overstepping boundaries at your school. Small things." It wasn't like he could just go around actually hurting and destroying like he wanted; after Flora he got a long lecture about how that would get him caught and punished no matter why he did it. He had to settle for things. "Don't get me wrong, you've been doing a fine job and should keep doing it, but expand your horizons." She moved her shoulders back and put a foot in between his. He moved one of them back to create some form of distance. He also kept his eyes on her face and not where they wanted to after her change in posture.

"Tell me," she purred, "do people blatantly give off their urge to fuck you?" He nodded. She chuckled and lightly brushed his arm with her long nails. "A significant number?" Even a ghost wanted to, so... He nodded. She smiled that dark smile again. "Good. Use that to your advantage. Now, you don't have to fuck them to get your way. Make them want to fuck you." She brushed his arm again and tilted her head to the side. She probably wanted to show him how to play that particular game, so he tilted his head as well.

She leaned in closer and practically breathed out, "Temptation is so alluring because it's something at arm's length that you just." She gently touched his chest. "Can't." She gripped his collar. "Have." She roughly pushed him back. He hit the wall and gasped. He didn't expect that. He didn't know what he expected, but it wasn't that. She took a step back and stared at him with a smirk. Her body language wasn't aggressive. Almost all of her weight rested on one leg. one hand delicately rested on her hip. She eyed him with a sort of predatory fascination; she was gauging his reactions to her, he realized, and seeing if he could fall for the temptation she was just describing. The smirk on her face and his confusion at what he expected told them both what the answer was: 

Yes, yes he could.

She continued with the same teasing lilt, "You don't need to do much to have people blindly willing to do whatever you want. Tease them with a view of what they can't have, and they'll be so desperate to get another glimpse or even the smallest touch that they won't notice how you're playing them for yourself." She moved the hand on her waist down a little. He looked at her face instead, earning another smirk. She walked over to the fruit bowl and picked up an apple, rolling it between her fingers. "But don't go too far. You have to let them choose to chase after it. Don't shove the fruit into their mouth; point to the tree and watch them pick from it." She tossed it to him, and he looked at it. The Garden of Eden. The First Sin. The Fall of Man. And now it was his turn to instigate another big Fall.

"I think we can do better than a tree," he dryly responded and tossed it back to her.

"That's it! That's what I wanted to hear! We aren't going to even bother with it; chop the stupid thing down for firewood and don't give it any other mind." He couldn't help but smile at her. The excitement was infectious, and he was glad she was actively encouraging him instead of telling him to be cautious.

"So what's after the firewood?"

"Burn the fucking world to the ground. And with the last dregs of humanity desperately trying to stay alive, get inside their heads and get them to at each others' throats until all that's left are the ones we can work with."

"And start over?"

"And start over."

"So that's when you'll actually get your hands dirty." She laughed.

"It's more of a light dust, but yes. Because I want the job done right, and I want to make sure you actually play your part even though you have no idea what you're doing now." That sent a chill up his spine. Underneath the teasing he could feel the cold threat; she wouldn't tolerate mistakes, and she wouldn't tolerate going against her plan. No exceptions, not even for him.

He nodded. "I understand."

"Good. You're already pretty teachable, which is good, so I don't think we'll have many problems with following instructions." Again, the underlying threat. He nodded again and walked over to where she was standing. She raised an eyebrow at him abut didn't move. He did, however, and put himself in her personal space like she did earlier; she was more outwardly uncomfortable, however. Interesting. He took the apple out of her hand and put it on the counter, lightly brushing her hand as he did. 

"There is?"

"For you. I'm not one for exceptions, but this is something that needs it. If we're going to be communicating, we need to do it efficiently."

"How do you do it?"

"I'll make an exception with my pentagram policy. Use your blood, make the pentagram, just chat with me."

"That's not what a pentagram is for, though..." She sighed in frustration.

"Does it look like I give a rat's ass about what a fucking pentagram is for? I'm in a fucking old lady's kitchen in a slip and stilettos talking to my goddamn son about Armageddon. Use the pentagram. Don't use the pentagram. I don't give a shit." She touched his arm to keep his attention and emphasize her point. He could feel her nails digging into the soft skin and bit the inside of his cheek. He kept his eyes focused on hers. She leaned in close to him and growled, "I'm telling you how to get in touch with me. Because you will wether or not you want it." Her grip tightened, and he hissed from the pain. "I'm giving you the choice about how this will go. Don't make me choose for you. You will not like that choice. Understand?" He nodded mutely. She went from sensually predatory to an angrily ticking time bomb after one sentence. He didn't want to provoke her any more. She squeezed his arm again then let go. He looked down. A little bit of blood had started to form in the nail indents. He kept his eyes on them. He'd never had anyone do something like that to him before. Especially not a parental figure. It confused him in a way that made him feel like a young child for the second time in a few hours, and he hated that feeling. He hated the confusion. He hated feeling young and naive. But he could choose like she wanted, and he would. Even if this was confusing, he wanted to watch the world burn and would willingly be confused to get there.

He was taken out of his thoughts by her hand running through his hair. He looked at her face. She had a concerned expression that felt similar to Grandma's, down to the way she pursed her lips. The familiarity helped to distract him from the confusion and frustration and fear, and he felt himself calming down. He leaned into her touch. She gave a tight, sad smile- again, almost exactly like Grandma- and cupped his cheeks. He exhaled and relaxed. She smiled wider.

"I know you understand," she almost whispered. "You have to in order to do this whole thing. We have to keep in touch to keep understanding, and we need to understand to achieve our goal." She started to move her hand away from him face, but he impulsively kissed the inside of her wrist. She pulled it away almost immediately, but it temporarily rested on his shoulder before landing at her side. She looked at him with the shy smile again, and he looked back at her. He didn't realize that she wasn't as good as resisting seduction as dishing it out. Interesting, considering she was actually Satan.

"You think I actually can lean what you'll be teaching me?" he murmured and leaned a bit closer. If she was this bad, he could theoretically do whatever he wanted. She looked at him and tilted her head.

"I know you can. Otherwise we'll have problems." He smiled and leaned forward, but she put her hand over his mouth. "But you absolutely suck at trying to seduce someone." She walked to the counter and poured herself another glass of champagne, downing it in one go. He just stared at her.

"What?" She laughed at him.

"What, you think you acting like you're gonna kiss me and actually giving into your Oedipus complex a little would work on anyone, let alone me? All I had to do was bat my eyelashes like a schoolgirl and you were tripping over yourself to give me attention. You suck at actual seduction, and you also suck at figuring out when someone's using reverse psychology to seduce you. D for effort, though." He shook his head.

"Hold on, how did-"

"You're used to being all cute and innocent to get people to do what you want. Your one weakness- your grandmother- saw through this but let you think you could get away from it while actually getting you to not go too far. When you're faced with real seduction, real sex appeal, you have no idea how to handle the inexperience and the fact that you fell for something and subsequently want to get back at the person who tricked you. Like a petulant, petty child. Which, coincidentally, you are. And when you're give the slightest indication of it working, you go all in and don't even pause to consider wether or not it's genuine. You think about how clever you are for fooling the fucking Devil and charge forward in the sloppiest, most unsubtle way you can and don't even notice that the cues I've been giving you are luring you in and seducing you. Hook, line, and sinker. And I was being pretty damn sloppy. You have to step your game up."

He stared at her. He had been played. By someone in lingerie and stilettos. He glared at her. She smirked back. He clenched his fist and attempted to hurt her with the magic he had- according to the Council- mastered.

That was the first and last mistake he made.

As soon as he even attempted to, every muscle in his body tensed to the point he could almost hear his bones breaking under its force. Hot, searing pain spread throughout it as if a burning knife was being dragged across every square inch of his body. He started to scream, or at least thought he did. The pain was too overwhelming to tell if he was screaming or not. He just knew that his mouth was open, and he was attempting it. Suddenly, he felt his back collide with the wall and screamed again. This time, he knew it actually was a scream. He tried to move away from it but couldn't. The sensation of a hot knife turned into several hot knives piecing through the front of his body to deep into the wall. He kept screaming. The knives dug in deeper. He screamed to make it stop please make it stop it hurt please stop make it stop make it stop make it-

The knives were pulled out, and he dropped to the floor. The cold tile was welcomed by his burning nerves. Hot tears spilled onto them, and he could practically hear each individual splash the teardrops made. His heart was pounding too hard. His blood was rushing through his ears too fast. The lights were too bright. Everything was too much. He just needed it to not be too much.

Click. Click. Click. The sound of stilettos echoed in his head through the tile. He raised his eyes so he could see the tops of them. A cold hand raised his head and forced him to look into pitch-black eyes. Everything about those eyes and their owner radiated pure, unadulterated rage. And he was very, very scared.

"I like to think I'm understanding," she growled. "I really don't have that many restrictions because hey, shit happens. But I do have restrictions, and I do have limits, and you have broken each and every one of them. You actually thought that would work? Really? I would've thought that at least some amount of common sense would prevent you from attempting to hurt me on an impulse. If you keep this shit up, I will have to kill you and have to wait another unreasonably long time for some idiot to think that a human and a ghost would make okay babies." A thumb brushed his tears away. She shook her head and pursed her lips. "You're getting one more chance. One more chance to not fuck up like this again." He nodded and started to cry again, and the tears were once again brushed away. She sighed and rubbed his bottom lip. "I see potential in you, Michael. I really do. But you can't do this because it makes me reconsider if that potential is really enough to keep you around. Come on." She stood up and held her hand out. He took it and let her help him up. Once he was, she started to circle around him.

"I won't do that again," he whispered.

"I know." Her tone changed from angry to cold. Businesslike, almost. The banter was over, and now the real work was starting.

"What's the first step?"

"Well, the first thing you're going to do is actually get completely on board."

"I am."

"Mostly. I need to make sure you're fully committed before we start off."

"Is this the contract thing?" She stopped circling and nodded with a smirk.

"Not the usual one. It's more of an agreement, but still as binding. Now tell me," she resumed her circling, "who am I?"

"Satan, Lord of Darkness. You were the first-"

"I don't need a history lesson on my life, but I appreciate the fact that you'd actually go through the list of titles. What I want to know is who am I in the simplest terms?"

"...The Devil?"

"Good. And who am I to you?"

"My father."

"Good. Now, we're both going to be doing the whole Armageddon thing together. That whole process is our main goal, right?"

"Right."

"And you're going to help me, right? Key word: help. I am the ultimate authority. I give the final word. Still up for that?"

"Yes."

"Good." She stopped again. He could feel her mounting excitement. It was scary, but he also found it contagious. He was actually doing this. It was actually going to happen. "We're going to destroy the opposing side, you and I." A pause, then he realized that she stopped asking for confirmation but still wanted it.

"Yes."

"We're going to destroy them and their allies."

"Yes." She took a step closer. He smiled at her excitedly, and she gave the same smile back.

"And when the destruction is over, you'll help me rebuild this sucker."

"Yes." She held one of his hands in both of hers. He gripped them with the other one. Her skin was burning. He didn't care.

"We'll rebuild it together."

"Yes."

"But before we get to the rebuilding and the destroying, we have to make the agreement. You ready for the rest of it?" He nodded vigorously. "I need words, child."

"I'm ready. I'm ready to do it, do whatever I need to." She smiled and brushed his cheek before going back to squeezing his hands.

"Good. Who am I?"

"My father."

"Which makes you?"

"Your son."

"Not man's?"

"Not man's."

"Not women's?"

"Not women's."

"Not humanity's?"

"Not humanity's."

"Not God's?"

"Not God's."

"Not Heaven's?"

"Not Heaven's."

"You don't belong to any of them?"

"I don't." She leaned in closer.

"Have you ever belonged to any of them?" she hissed. A brief flash of Grandma and his mother ran through his head, but he had made up his mind when he attempted to summon her here.

"No." She smiled and leaned in closer. He leaned in as well. Her breath was practically blasting him in his face.

"Will you belong to any of them?"

"No."

"Do you reject them and everything they stand for?" Another flash, this time only of Grandma. He made his decision.

"Yes."

"Will you surrender to me and everything I represent, stand for, and fight for?"

"Yes."

"Will you help me bring about the End Times?"

"Yes."

"Will you help me remake the world in my image?"

"Yes."

"Will you be faithful and loyal to me in everything you do no matter what happens?"

"I will." She leaned in until their lips were almost touching. He sucked in a breath. She smiled.

"Do you accept your place as my son and my son alone, my aide and my right hand, to carry out my work until the end is reached?" she breathed.

"I accept it."

She bit his bottom lip before hissing, "Then seal the fucking deal, child, and I'll show you what true power is." Then she stepped back completely, releasing his hands.

He stared at her. She stared back. Neither moved a muscle.

He said everything, promised everything, believed everything.

She didn't finish the process.

One last chance to back out, he realized.

She tilted her head forward as if to say, 'Make the choice sooner rather than later.'

He realized that she expected him to be the one to seal the deal.

He had to be the one to pick the fruit before taking the bite.

He took a breath.

He walked forward.

He kissed her fully on the lips.

She kissed him back almost immediately and gripped the back of his head, keeping him locked in it. Not that he wanted to stop. As soon as their lips touched, he felt something entering him. Something spreading throughout him. Something invigorating. Something beautiful. It felt wonderful. He felt wonderful.

He felt powerful. More powerful than he ever had in his life. It was like she unlocked something in him that he himself couldn't. That the school couldn't. That everyone but her couldn't. And as the kiss continued, it grew stronger. He grew stronger. He also fully felt her claim over him. She was the one who made the contract, she was the one who gave him this new, powerful feeling, she was the one who would enforce their agreement. And he accepted it.

Suddenly she pulled away and growled, "Kneel." He did without hesitation. She smiled coldly at him and pulled his head back to look at her. "You're one of the family now. My baby now." He held her wrist and smiled at her.

"Your right hand of destruction." She smiled wider.

"Exactly right." She bent down and gave him another kiss. He kissed back. When they stopped, she whispered, "Say the magic words. Before I go, say the magic words. I want to hear them from your mouth."

"Ave Satanis."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took way longer than I expected it to take but I wanted it to be good, so I took this long. Also, shoutout to my amazing and wonderful and spectacular friend for proofreading some parts of this.
> 
> Remember that I love all of you but I will not hesitate to hurt the characters because I also drink your tears because I'm a messed-up person writing fanfiction about a messed-up show. Feel free to tell me how much I made you cry while I drink your tears! :3


	10. Ten for a Bird You Must not Miss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Cooperation enlists Michael to get robot designs and getting someone to do the life-saving interviews. He does, but with his own plans and in his own way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I am going to be hammering in the magpie poem I did too much looking it up to not hammer it in. And none of you can stop me.

"We don't care how it gets done, Langdon. Just get it done."

Michael stood stock still while his "superiors"- that word still left a horrible taste in his mouth- left the room one by one. He kept his face blank. They wouldn't get a reaction out of him. They would just see the perfect subordinate who was chastised for meaningless pestering and wouldn't do it again. The perfect dog on their chain. They wouldn't see him barely holding back from snapping all of their worthless necks. The wolf stalking their weak pack.

The door closed. He was alone. He walked up to the table and looked at the two files left out for him to deal with. He'd scanned them several times in the meeting, but he scanned them one more time.

'We don't care how it gets done, Langdon.' A dangerous statement, especially for someone like him.

'Just get it done.' Oh, he would get it done.

Task one: In the event of the Apocalypse, one or more representatives needed to be assigned to go to the various Outposts. Who would be assigned?

Correction one: When the Apocalypse happens. He and Father had been working too hard for it to not happen.

Correction two: There weren't enough Outposts to justify the term 'various.' Four. Just say four.

He sat down at the table and scrawled out the assignments. Him, of course, and one other. Someone disposable. They would travel to the first Outpost together, then one would move to the fourth Outpost and make their way in, meeting back at Outpost Three. If- when- one of the representatives was put out of the picture- killed- the other would follow this plan with Outpost Three as the destination point, choosing their own path to said destination. Sign, stamp, return to file, put the file on the other side of the table.

They really shouldn't have made him the one to determine the fate of the world from the human perspective. They should have at least given him one handler so he didn't have complete authority.

Everyone in power really was an idiot.

He moved to the other file. The more complicated one.

They wanted to make at least one AI to guard at least one of the Outposts. Again, the idiots trusted only one person to control this. They wouldn't budge on the official backstory, but he could manage the details as much as he wanted. As long as she remained loyal to the Cooperative.

He could do that. He could do that well and give them what they want. At least, what they think they want.

He wrote down the details, centering many important memories around Halloween: her first Halloween- she dressed as a robot from TV-, her first date- refusing to be groped and used against her will-, her first major fight- a cov-op mission and assassinating her husband. He at least had a sense of humor.

He also had selfish motivations. He put a small, personal memory in the list of the official ones. A small weak link in their perfect chain. Destroying the ones on top from the inside.

Sign, stamp, return to file, put the file on the other side of the table, call them in.

They approved of almost everything. Congratulated him on almost everything. He smiled demurely, bowed his head with gratitude, thanked them for their condescension. When they questioned him assigning himself, he played the cocky young newcomer, and they eventually relented because hey, it's his funeral. The weakness in the AI, however...

"Why does she have to have a vague memory of taking care of a child?" the Head asked. "Especially one with golden hair and the whole 'innocent cherub' schtick. Won't that ruin the hardened soldier in the other memories?" Yes. That was the point. But he just tilted his head to the side and morphed his expression into innocent confusion.

"I thought it actually works rather well in the long run."

"Elaborate, Langdon."

"Well, having her be a caretaker for a small child that fits the 'innocent' cherub image, minus the blue eyes since she can't distinguish the face, then she'll have a subconscious attachment to the preservation of humanity's future. She has an attachment and sense of duty to protect small children, which extends to protecting the future of the human race. This will make her more loyal to the Cooperative's cause, as well as creating a soft spot that can be used to ensure her compliance with our instructions. Just mention children, and she'll think about the boy she took care of. The ultimate emotional manipulation."

They exchanged surprised glances. One by one they nodded with approval.

"Excellent foresight, Langdon." He bowed his head.

"Thank you, Sir." He followed them out of the room and headed to his quarters, careful to hide the smug smile threatening to surface. As soon as he shut the door, he let it break free and laughed to himself. They were so gullible. It was funny, honestly. As long as they got their Outposts and their robot, they were content.

As for him, he was content now that he would get her back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this writing leans more than a bit towards the cliche side, but I'm cheesy and will make Michael a bit cheesy by extensions. Besides, I planned on this being short after writing two long chapters, so it's two birds with one stone. Fight me.


	11. That had Nothing to Do With Me, I Promise!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While at the first Outpost, an accident happens that has absolutely nothing to do with Michael. The fact that he was talking to Satan is a happy coincidence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought Satan was a one-and-done character? You thought it was over? Ha!
> 
> There will not be awkward kissing in this one, though. Just DEATH.

Michael looked over Stephen's shoulder at their shared computer. On the screen, a list of names with brief descriptions next to them; some had either "RED" or "GREEN" nest to them, with a brief explanation on why. The first group of people had been interviewed. Stephan had more "GREEN" than "RED", but Michael had less names. It was obvious which one had been more thorough.

"How on earth did you only approve of one person?" Stephen asked. "Isn't that a bit harsh?" Michael shrugged.

"I actually went through all the categories we set up. That took time, so I only got to about three people, compared to your seven. How long did you take for each person, five minutes?"

"I think we need as many people as we can take. You're being harsh."

"No. I'm doing my job." Stephen decided to drop the subject and write the first email. Michael walked to his bed and took his jacket off. It had been a long day. He wanted to just burn the place to the ground, but it had to look like an accident. Plus, one of the other people was interesting... He wanted to see how they'd actually interact in the future. He could have some fun, after all.

"So Langdon," Stephen awkwardly said to nothing. Michael made an interested noise to show he was listening. "So this is something that everyone's probably thinking, but what do you think happened?"

"To trigger the end of the world?"

"Yeah." Well, since the Cooperative was connected to the American Government, it was pretty easy to increase their paranoia until some international relations went a bit askew.

"No idea. Probably some sort of Cold War escalation that didn't stop." Some fake messages and well-placed reverse psychology, hacking, Father helping with a few natural disasters...

"Yeah. Probably." He stood up from his desk and headed towards the door. "I'm gonna go mingle. Try to see how many of them will try kissing our asses." Michael snorted.

"Have fun. I'm going to go ahead and get some sleep." Stephen left the room, and Michael pulled a small knife out of his suitcase. Halfway through zipping it up, the lights went off. He slowly put the knife back and went back to the bed. As soon as he sat down, the lights turned back on, and his father stood in the center of the room, blonde hair and stilettos and everything.

"I was just about to call." She smiled at him.

"Yeah, but this is less suspicious. We're in too deep to get caught now.

"So no more pentagrams?"

"Not until your buddy's disposed of. Speaking of which, when is that happening?"

"Soon."

"How soon is soon?"

"In a few hours at most. Along with everyone else. Depends on how long the actual process goes."

"Are they gonna kill each other that soon?"

"Well, having those radioactive mutant beasts suddenly bursting in will be motivation." She started to laugh a smooth, full laugh. Cruel, yes. But still beautiful.

"Good one. That'll have them dead pretty quickly."

"I thought you'd like that."

"Very much. You've been learning very well." He straightened his posture proudly.

"Told you."

"I never doubted that."

The room started to shake, and the lights started to flicker. She sighed in annoyance. He looked around in confusion

"What's going on?"

"Guess those radioactive sons of bitches got in. Your friend is trying to get you up." He groaned. "I know, I know. We'll talk about this later. Wake up, get in your protective gear, get to the next outpost." He nodded and gave her a quick hug. She patted his head then pushed him onto the ground. At least, that's what she would have done.

Instead, he woke up to Stephen shaking him frantically and muffled screaming in the distance. "Langdon, wake up! We gotta get out of here!"

"What is it?" Radioactive monsters.

"Those mutant zombie things! One of them got it!" He ran over to his suitcase and grabbed his suit. Michael did the same. They packed everything, then Stephen locked the door from the inside.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Michael hissed.

"We have more of a chance of surviving if we don't get in the middle of the carnage." Michael wanted to be in the middle of the carnage.

"And we have less of a chance of preserving the human race!"

A loud, frantic banging on the door. Both men looked at each other, then the door. Michael ran to it while Stephen protested. He opened the door, and one of his previous interviews ran in. He locked it back up, then went back to his suitcase. Stephen stuttered out weak excuses while he grabbed a spare suit and tossed it at the visitor.

"So glad you could join us." The new party glared at him while putting it on.

"You're just going to hide while we're all getting mowed down" Stephen kept stuttering.

"My colleague wanted to. I was actually in the middle of trying to convince him to let me go help when you came in."

"It's a radioactive monster!"

"Stephen, shut up! We have protective gear. We have a chance."

"But-"

"Too late. I'm the only one left." Michael sighed. He missed the fun. He was hoping to get some casualties in during the chaos.

"What do we do now?" Stephen whined.

"Is the thing still roaming around?"

"Yeah."

"Well, either we stay here and eventually starve and/or go insane waiting for it to leave, or we risk death by trying to get out and get to the next Outpost. Which one is it?"

"I don't have much to lose by dying, so I'll risk it as long as I know where the nearest one is." Michael smiled and handed her a map. He didn't have to ask Stephen what his answer was; all three of them knew.

"You think you can make it?"

"Not with that attitude."

"Stephen, you can just say you'd rather be the coward than go with us. It's a valid option, no matter how much we'll judge you."

"Fine, I am that coward. This was supposed to keep shit like that out."

"Obviously, someone had a few bright ideas about security here." Michael felt suspicious eyes darting in between him and his coworker. Smart. Very smart.

"No use arguing about that now. Shall we?"

"Might as well. Let's go die."

They filed out. Surprisingly, all three of them filed out. They cautiously made their way through the many hallways in the Outpost; Michael was the only one carrying a weapon until they reached the Common room. The other two armed themselves with fire pokers. Through more hallways until they reached the exit. Where the mutant creature crouched, finishing off a bloody corpse. That made one of them excited. It also made all of them freeze and stare at it.

Michael moved first, about to run towards it when Stephen pulled him back while yelling, "Are you fucking insane?"

There creature turned and saw them. It growled and lunged.

Michael used the force of being pulled back to grab Stephen's arm.

He spun them around and threw his colleague at it.

Stephen didn't have enough time to scream.

The remaining two left out of the way.

Michael ran to the door and threw it open, yelling, "What are you waiting for?"

After they got out, he closed it again and turned to his fellow survivor.

"Why the fuck did you fling him at that thing?"

"He would've died anyway. Especially if he elected to cower in the room."

"I thought you wanted the three of us to get out!"

"He obviously didn't."

"Well, what do you want? Since we're all alone." He grinned under his mask. Definitely fun to play with.

"What do you mean?"

"I talked with the other interviews. You ask very different questions. More thorough. So what do you want with the survivors?"

"That's classified?"

"By the Cooperative? Or by you?" He grinned wider.

"What does it matter? You won't know either way."

"Will I know enough to get to the Outpost you talked about?"

"You will. It's only a few miles away. You can make it by sunset."

"You're not coming with me?"

"Why would I?"

"Sticking in a pack, maybe?"

"Never for me, I'm afraid."

"What is for you? Leaving everyone to die painful deaths?"

"Not everyone."

"Well, everyone in the Outpost."

"They were already dead when we left."

"Both of you were clearly uninterested in actually doing your jobs. And with you throwing your buddy in front of that thing, I'm pretty sure I know who let it in." Okay, enough playing around. He moved closer until their masks were almost touching.

"Listen," he growled, "the mystery of who opened the door is irrelevant now. They might be dead. It might be me. It might be you. It might be poor security. No matter what it might have been, it doesn't matter anymore. I'm offering you a chance to get away and get to safety before something awful happens. My business is my business. I don't care if your job was other people's business. Your job doesn't exist anymore. Right now, your job should be getting away from a death trap. Don't concern yourself with where I'm going. You have a map. Use it and forget you almost died. Got it?"

Tense silence. Then a hesitant nod.

"Hopefully you won't get eaten. The Cooperative won't like having to send more lackeys to clean up your mess." He laughed at that. She slowly backed away, then turned, then broke into a run. He chuckled to himself.

"Goodbye, Dinah," he whispered. "Take care of yourself."


	12. Still a Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael has met many people with the same face. One person's face, however, doesn't match who they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. The last chapter. I'm so thankful to everyone who has given me feedback and love! You all are so sweet and positive, and it's made me so happy that you guys are this receptive towards my writing. Keep sending me comments. I will keep responding even after this is done because I care about all of the lovely readers who click on this. Bless all of you!

Michael idly sent an email to the Cooperative giving the final verdicts for the interviews. Things had gotten dull after five minutes in Outpost 3. They were all so easy manipulate, too naive to survive for five minutes unsupervised, and too catty to spend time with. It took the fun out of messing with them.

Somehow he got them to leave him out of their plot to kill everyone- the one that he came up with. Idiots. All of them. Even the sleeper couldn't see past her nose, which admittedly did make it easier to cover his tracks and hide his manipulation. It couldn't be easier. It couldn't be more boring.

Someone knocked on his door and opened it. Oh, they'd already killed everyone, hadn't they? That was surprisingly quicker than he thought.

"Ladies, please wait while I finish with the results of the interviews." They wouldn't let him finish, but he had finished before they came in and was miming at it. They probably felt so superior.

"This will only take a minute." Definitely felt so superior. He turned around.

"Yes?"

"Everyone else in the outpost is dead. We're deciding the results now, and I'm afraid you didn't make the cut." Vennible was so smug and self-righteous. She really thought that they had the upper hand. It was adorable.

He laughed.

He couldn't help himself; it was hilarious how bold they were being. The confusion on both their faces made him laugh harder, rifling both of their feathers. When he calmed down, he apologized, "I'm sorry. I wanted to let you have your moment, but it was just too good to resist."

"I beg your pardon?" Indignation. He wanted to laugh again but decided against it. One of them had a gun, after all. Instead, he walked closed to them.

"I never thought you'd actually do it." He knew she would. And now for the final nail in the coffin. "Congratulations. You passed." Stunned horror flickered in her eyes. Good. "Both of you." The surprise turned to hatred.

"We're past that now," she hissed. "Miss Mead."

Big mistake.

They both looked at the android as she pointed her gun at him. He kept his open body stance and smiled at her. She wasn't going to shoot him. She couldn't, seeing as she was Cooperative-built and programmed against that.

"Miss Mead." The gun shook. He smiled wider as her arm slowly but surely moved to Vennible's chest.

"What are you doing?"

BANG

Vennible collapsed, dead almost immediately. He had to admit that placing emphasis on her made-up agent backstory seemed a bit excessive at the time, but it did come in handy. He smiled and knelt down by the body to see the damage, ignoring the shaky breathing coming from the woman next to him.

"I-I don't know why I'd do that," she gasped. He did. "I mean, I always thought I was loyal to her-"

"You were programmed to be loyal to the Cooperative," he explained dryly while standing, turning to face her. "When it came down to it, you would follow my orders. Which, I must say, you did perfectly." Realization. She was quick.

"So the apples... it- it was you?" He nodded. "I don't understand.... Why?" He smiled again, remembering what Grandma had told him. It managed to still ring true.

"Because humanity is corrupt. And all people, given the right stimulus and pressure, are evil motherfuckers." She slowly started to calm down, a pitiful shade of helplessness coloring her pale features.

"I don't know why you'd keep me..." No. "I mean," no "I'm just" no "a machine-" No.

"Don't say that!" He snapped. That was not true. Not true at at. "Never say that!" She wasn't a machine. She was his. His. He designed her. "You're not just a machine; not to me!" She shook her head in confusion. That broke his heart.

"I don't understand." He stepped forward. She needed to remember. Remember him.

"You were modeled after someone I lost," he quietly explained. "Someone very dear to me, who never betrayed me." Raised him. Loved him. Cared for him.

Realization. That made him tear up. In a hushed whisper, she choked, "The beautiful boy..." Yes, the beautiful boy. He nodded.

"That was me." Crying now. Both of them.

"Then why-"

"It would have overturned everything. The plan to move forward. But you can remember now." Remember the boy. Remember the face. Remember the room. Remember the body. The blood. The glee. The blood on his hands. The boy. The emotions. The role. The relationships. "You remember, don't you?" Remember the boy. Remember him. Remember me.

She nodded, new tears falling from her eyes. He smiled wider.

"I lost you once before. I cannot imagine a world without you by my side."

Remember me. Remember me. Remember me remember me remember me remember me

"The only woman who ever loved you." He nodded again.

Remember me remember me see me see me see me

"That's right."

See me see me see me see me I'm here you're back I'm here you're back see me

He pulled her into a hug and buried his face into the crook of her neck.

You're back here with me and now you don't have to leave again

She squeezed him tightly, and they stood there in silence.

You don't have to leave you're here with me don't leave me again don't go I'm here you're back see me

Eventually she pulled away.

See me

Cupped his cheek in her hand with a smile.

See me

Whispered, "My beautiful boy," while he leaned into her touch.

See me, Grandma.

"What am I going to do with you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you for the support that I've gotten since chapter 1. It means the world to me. And go follow my best friend icecreamsoldier23 on Instagram! She's been giving me feedback since chapter 3 and deserves all the love she can get and more. Tell her I sent you and also give love to her art because it's bomb af.

**Author's Note:**

> Give me feedback, give me hate, give me comments, I enjoy hearing opinions!


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